Cursing Louder Than a Northern Gale

I was directed to write a love letter to myself by my wildly loving friend, J Clement Wall. My initial thought was “how romantic, a love letter to Leah”. But then I felt the unction of resistance, that inner speed bump, which slows down forward motion, and I knew that I wouldn’t write the letter because it required a generous portion of bigness toward one’s self that I was pretty sure I didn’t possess. So I put off the assignment indefinitely.

As it turns out, I have a stack of untouched assignments issued by homespun sages, and as much as I admire these gentle troubadours, I sometimes feel a bit of intimidation by their bright-eyed bullet lists containing the secrets of life from the lates and the greats. I’m cynical of their pastel outlooks, such Monet hearts, and then there’s mine, mucked up and muddy from all my fall downs, tramping along with my broken toe cursing louder than a northern gale, measuring myself against all that isn’t me and feeling the small of it.

It’s the familiar cycle of self abandonment

that I move in and out of

and it hurts more than the toe, or the stretch and yawn into each long day, because I’m not really here. I’m not anywhere. I’m tucked away within the folds of forgetfulness, waiting for the courage to fly back to myself.

So, I’ve decided to go ahead and write that love letter because I could really use one right now, and with Valentine’s Day nearing I figured what a perfect set up for me-mance.

Yes, this is for me.

So here goes.

My Dearest Self,
First I’d like to say that I feel I owe you an enormous apology. I’m sorry for abandoning you when you were a little girl and that you've had to struggle with this self-abandonment issue your entire life. I underestimated the powerful connection between you and you--that big U within. I left you fluttering like a baby moth, banging into the low glow of this shabby world, and injuring your delicate wings. My looking away cost you your ability to fly, and forced you to walk barefoot across the dirty asphalt of your childhood. I wish I could have remembered who you were back then, but the pain was real, and the darkness of the journey unexpected.

You were a real hero (although you didn’t realize it). No matter how many times you got knocked down, you found a way to get back onto your feet. You faced the unlovely with an open heart, and even forgave the ones with weapons. You remained kind, which is the best type of miracle of all, offering what little you had to those who had less. If only you had offered the same generous love to yourself. I see now that it was your mother’s gift for alchemy that helped to cultivate your richness of soul. She was also a hero, but like you, she never learned to spread her wings.

You still are my hero.

I need to tell you how much I love you, and even though I sometimes pick on you, and underestimate your talents, I never doubt your ability to do great loving things.

Since you were a child you’ve desired a slow-dance intimacy with life, seeking a love powerful enough to lift you into the heavens where the stars sparkle with joy at the sight of you. My wish for you is the redemption of this divine romance--that you lose your cynicism, and look within, where you will discover that the one who steals your breath away with each kiss is always present…always you.

I wish for you to uncover the treasure of unconditioned authenticity; the putting away of the measuring stick, the better and worse, and see that every inch of you is the perfect “enough”.

I wish for you to step out of the tiny--that box, which was designed by your fears, and realize the dreams that have been nesting in your heart, those golden eggs you’ve been tending for years, are about ready to hatch.

And finally, I wish for you to never forget who you really are…
that you were created from stardust and love
believe the rumors of your greatness--and how much I absolutely adore you.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Love,
Leah

A Soft Surrender

I was taking my usual walk
when I noticed a fallen leaf on the grassy path ahead.
I couldn't help but feel a pinch of pity
wondering if this leaf knew that it was dying.

I paused
waiting for the rise and fall
a faint pulse
but the leaf remained motionless
staring into the dappled underbelly of a former life.

Could it see the flitting birds above
whose cares blended well with green?

And what of the greedy squirrels
dropping acorns as they ran
the soft thuds of a midwinter snack
was it jealous of them?

I remained still
pondering this gentle slip of gold
wishing it would somehow rage against the inevitable
maybe catch a swift breeze
ride it higher than blue.

While wondering about all these things
I respectfully snapped a photo.

Upon viewing the simple image...

I realized
that I knew this leaf very well.

The Long Halls of The Morning

I’ve been rising early lately, walking the long halls of the morning, not certain where to put myself. My thoughts are what cause me to pace. Invasive little buggers that hijack me on my way to my pre-dawn pee, unsettling murmurs with spikes and spears, finding the softest places in my heart—piercing the pinky folds where wonder, love, and moonbeams are hidden. I never wear my breastplate to bed—that brassy brassiere that guards my heart—I lay it aside in slumber; after all, a girl needs to rest unencumbered by fear.

These early risings have caused my schedule to shift. What I normally do at 10:am I find myself doing by 8, making my day seem like a long train with endless cars rattling by—leaving me waiting for that bright red caboose to end the sentence and lift the gate. Oh wait a minute. That doesn’t sound inspiring at all. It makes life seem like an endurance test of sorts.

Precisely.

Most days rise and fall with events and thoughts, some self-inflicted, some random— the inner and the outer workings of me coming together to create a life consisting of unanswerable questions, nagging have tos, and yes, bliss. Of course the bliss part of my people pie is relatively small—a sliver of sweet aside a platter of boiled liver and cabbage, and somehow I know this is my fault, but hello! I could barely deal with a 17-hour day and now I have 19 hours. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; but can I really be trusted to carpe diem when I can barely vacuum the carpet?

I’m certain that these early risings have been sent as loving teachers to guide me on yet another divine adventure of how to live joyfully in the moment without judgments and expectations, and I am grateful for everything, no matter how mushy the texture or bitter the taste, but I hope I learn whatever lesson this is quickly.

It just seems I can never get away with anything. It's like my father's the principal or something. Some people skip through life with clean socks and new sneakers, zippidy-doo-da-ing through their day. Why do I always have to have a lesson on something? Oh wait…that goes into the unanswerable questions pile.

Please Universe… send me some fun tests next time, like proving to you that winning the lottery won’t ruin me. I don't mean to whine but I need my sleep!

Surrender to Your Nakedness

I’ve kept clear of writing lately opting instead to dip my brush into tiny puddles of primaries and pastels. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge to write, but rather I’ve grown tired of my own words. For me writing is a reflective vocation where my words spell out the contents of my heart. If my heart is heavy, my words are heavy, and quite frankly I’ve been in such a state of introspection lately that my writing has become an extension of this self absorbed circuitry.

This negative energy has been trying to drain me of my strength and pallor for some time now, so when my friend, Julia suggested that I splash my life with color; I jumped right in. Actually she made me take up painting as a homework assignment for her Getting Naked Class, that I attend. The class has been huge help in pointing the way to the things that really matter. So thank you Julia for giving me an artistic nudge.

This morning I’m writing because I miss it and I’m hoping to discover some tiny treasures, perhaps a clue as to how to navigate beyond the limited default settings of my mind to a place of freedom and intelligence, a place where the past is tucked in and understood and doesn’t rule the day. A place where the future needn’t mirror the past but holds infinite possibilities and endless surprises. I want to be rid of all the senseless gloom and doom and skip off into the land of perpetual tra la las.

By making the writer paint I’ve stepped off of my predictable path. My artwork is childlike and two-dimensional, bespeaking naivety and a clear lack of formal training, yet it is honest and untainted by the measuring madness of the ego or the shortsightedness of ambition. Painting, when I’m not certain how to paint, has taught me that control is an illusion, as are security, perfection, and time, and that I need only be myself—my rag-tag, bedraggled, silly, somewhat gullible, grumpy, and overly-deep self in order to be happy. I am enough.

Surrendering to this truth is like stripping naked in a fabulous boutique. The silks linens and cottons call to me from the racks, but I must remain naked until I’m certain that I’m not using the clothing as a form of disguise or surrogate security. I must surrender to my nakedness as surely as the evening must surrender to dawn, spring to summer, autumn to the callous cold of winter, and finally life itself must surrender, like a startled zebra seized by the committed jaw of a lioness, to the relentless grip of death.

I am convinced that until I can consistently determine the difference between the conditioned voices of yesterday and the compassionate and intuitive words of today…right now, I will continue to get trapped within the webby inertia of identity-dementia, and waste my days looking backwards for the road ahead.

Oooo! Oooo! Oooo!

Teacher: “Okay class, put down your pens. We're going to have an oral pop quiz! Who can define the meaning of living an authentic life?”

Oooo! Oooo! Oooo! I feel like a kid raising my hand with the right answer. When I get full of something you know it’s going to overflow into my writing. So, here goes….

I am my authentic self and I am living an authentic life. It’s a funny term when you think of it…authentic self, authentic life. Like we’ve been offering our bodies as hosts to alien spirits. But in a way it’s true. Emotional pain can cause us to morph into damaged versions of ourselves. It can begin at a young age, and without even realizing it we can live in this state for most of our lives, often wearing a mask to hide our pain.

Or maybe we do realize that we’re feeling “off” and we commit to working on ourselves, making good progress, but then a strategic situation is placed before us to test our growth, the stakes seem higher than ever before, and we do alright for a season, but when the situation moves outside of our control, we freak out, reverting back to our unhealthy thought tracts—responding from a place of panic and desperation, until we no longer recognize ourselves. Where the hell did the real me go?

I can see myself walking into a busy pawnshop and telling the clerk that I want to pawn myself. Would he pull out a loop and look for a signature? Do a scratch test for carats? I can hear him saying, “Sorry lady, but you’re not authentic. You’re a rather sloppy copy of the rare and beautiful Leah Griffith.”

Huh? When did this happen? How could this happen? Was I the victim of a highly sophisticated heist?

If only it were that easy to detect when we’ve lost ourselves. The term authentic self may be a bit overused but the message remains mighty: You are rare and valuable. There is only one of you, and once you allow life’s circumstances to distract and overpower you, you are no longer free to be yourself. You’re living in, and acting from, a state of fear and bondage.

We mostly tie ourselves up in knots and then blame it on other people, emotionally framing them so as to shine the spotlight of suspicion elsewhere. Of course we don’t do this consciously; it’s the ego at work behind the scenes, protecting its fragile empire of half-truths, fears, and delusions in order to get its way and remain blameless and in charge. You may say, “But they wronged me! How is that tying myself up in knots?” Well, believe it or not, you gave them the rope (the power) when you placed too much importance on their roll in your life. By doing so you placed them on the throne and relinquished your power. They may not even be aware that you’ve given them your power. Or perhaps you gave your power away to drugs or alcohol. And why did you do this? Because deep down you held the erroneous belief that something outside of yourself was capable of making you happier than you ever could.

Oh Dorothy, when will you learn that you have always held the power for a happy life?

Here’s a good question: How does one go about taking back their power?

We lose our power one compromise at a time. Gaining back our power is pretty straightforward—but also a lifelong exercise. You must believe that you are a complete person possessing everything you need, both spiritually and emotionally, to live the amazing life placed before you. You must remind yourself of this every day, and when trials come you must remind yourself even more often. Of course you should welcome, love, and appreciate, the people in your life, but you mustn’t ever override your own instincts or convictions out of fear of rousing their anger or being rejected. Be brave enough to love and support yourself and quit comparing yourself to others.

Here’s the really good part about being authentic. Once you take your power back you can then use it to forgive yourself—for abandonment. Yup. You abandoned yourself. Not on purpose of course. But lets say as a child (before you had the emotional maturity to protect yourself) a parent did desert you, and then you carried that rejection into your adult life. You danced to the old tapes for years; never moving beyond the belief that you were not quite enough…something vital was missing. But now as an adult you are able to see that it is impossible to truly be abandoned by another person because only the inhabitant of a dwelling has the power of abandonment. The Free Dictionary’s
definition of abandoned is: unoccupied, empty, deserted, vacant, derelict and uninhabited. So you see, you would have to vacate (abandon) yourself in order for another person to move in. Only you can abandon yourself and give your power away to someone or something else.

Another way to use your reclaimed power is to forgive those people who have hurt you. Now that you have your power back you can see clearly that the other person was simply acting from his or her own limited view of self and life. You can stop measuring and judging them and freely offer them unconditional love. This is a divine love. Not one based on ego, (as long as they make me feel good, or agree with me, I’ll love them) but based on self-love and self-respect, both of which are divine qualities.

Being our authentic selves means fully inhabiting our lives—living from the inside out rather than the outside in, responding to life from a place of love instead of fear, and then offering the world our authenticity instead of our egos. It’s a nail-biting endeavor guaranteed to humble and test, but for those who want to live a powerful life, saturated with creativity and love, there is no substitute.

Okay, enough of my teachy mode. You do realize when I dole this chit out it’s only because I am learning it myself;)

Have I told you lately how glad I am that you’re here with me?

Lighten Up!

Looking back on the last several weeks, I’m finding it nearly impossible to return to my routine. Perhaps five weeks was too long to be gone, although it seems to have flown by. I miss reading by the swimming pool, or sitting on Linda’s porch at the end of the day, sharing the evening meal while solving all the problems in the world.

I loved strolling through Savannah’s narrow streets with her artsy shops and spooky parks—dripping in Spanish moss and tainted history.

And then there was Hilton Head with her highfalutin beaches tousled with mermaid-hair seaweed, looking all mystical and wild—the exact opposite of what I had expected from this high-class lady.

Being back after a five-week working vacation is like being at a rock concert and mid-way through your favorite song, the place loses its power, creating a head buzzing, ear blocking silence!

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. I think I’m just in a funk, plus Tropical Storm Debby is getting to me. She’s been lingering off of our coast for days, with her gray bloated self, blowing and boohooing all over everything—going no where because she can’t decide which path to choose, and giving us coastal dwellers a bad case of the nerves. (I know there’s a metaphor in there somewhere;)

All these clouds are putting me in a deeply reflective place. I’ve become way too serious this week and I’m trying to distract myself from it. This morning I did a four-page blog on the origin of thoughts. Four pages!! Yeah, be lucky I didn’t hit you with that one. You’d be running to the Dr. for some Prozac.

I know that I can’t help who I am. I have a tendency to go deep. Even as a kid I was reflective, opting to sit under a tree and listen to the birds, or play wordy records in my room, rather than run the neighborhood with the rest of the kids. I like being reflective and observant; it’s who I am.

I’ve never been much for the surface stuff. I don’t give a flying flip about how high your income is, or how good your children’s grades are. I’m more interested in hearing about you—the real you. And finding out what it is that you yearn for as you watch the sun quietly slip below the summer horizon, with a band of strumming crickets robbing you of your cares—leaving you alone and disarmed before all of creation. That’s the stuff I want to hear about.

So I run deep—and I’m a huge mush. And right now I’m missing the many faces that hold such special places in my heart.

My girls.

Soul sister Beth & family.

Mallory at the beach.

Laine & Mathius

Sweet Melissa

The Hammoudeh gang

I hate never having enough time to completely catch up with them. I’m certain that that’s why I’m feeling a little out of sorts. There’s just too much quiet around me, and then there’s Debby’s wallowing.

So, I guess I’m stuck with my deep-blue self, on this rainy day, although I’m not so far gone that I can’t seek some comedic relief…

Like sporting a pair of wax lips with my goofball friend!

Me & Lano

Or watching reruns of Just For Laughs.

Sometimes you just gotta lighten up!!

The Tango Continues

I’ve just had an amazing week with my friend Holly. We bodysurfed until we were bruised, combed miles of blonde beaches, ate at rustic waterfront cafes, and spent hours chatting out on the lanai. I didn’t realize how much I needed this time of rejuvenation until after she had left. That’s when I felt the residue of peace lingering like a fine mist floating in the air, setting free my breath, and opening up my mind.

I feel recharged and excited, now being able to enjoy the multitude of steps waiting to be climbed. I see them before me like a stairway spiraling upward—pinpricking through the clouds. I laugh at the great climb ahead, knowing full well that I will get there—in time.



What to do? What to do? My desk and wall are cluttered with scribbled scraps, folders, and odd mementos purposefully collected to inspire me. I moved my desk into the master bedroom in order to make room for, Jesse & Jesse, my two dear friends who had been staying with us now for a while. They departed this morning, driving northward, intent on a new journey, thus creating a vacancy in my heart—and my spare bedroom; so, today I shall transfer my office back to the spacious quietness of the guest suite so that I can spread out and plan…

It’s a small transition, but transitions and changes tend to create a rhythm of their own, beating in time with the monotonous, building momentum. One can never tell which action is important until afterwards, for each holds within itself a fan of repercussions, creating an endless wave of activities slapping against the lives of many…perhaps all.

So, what to do?

I received my proofs for Cosette’s Tribe this week, which is proof that I actually wrote a book; so, now that I have this wonderful novel I can see that there is much more work to do in order to nurture and care for it properly. It’s not so different than having a baby. When you’re in the hospital surrounded by smiles, balloons and family, the duties of motherhood seem somewhat distant and romantic, but once you’re at home with your pint-sized soul mate, all wiggly and pink—and demanding—you find your tears flowing along with the colicky lullaby of your infant’s cries; this is when motherhood arrests you, and you find that your life has been changed forever. Such is the life of a writer turned author.



As I write this blog my book sits silently beside me, literary twins—a paperback, and hardcover. Inanimate objects that can only be brought to life by the imagination of a hungry reader, someone to invite Cosette in where she can freely whisper her guarded secrets and dizzying dreams, finding a sure friend and confidant to join her on her journey.

There is no turning back or changing my mind. I, like a parent, have created a life and now I am responsible for that life. The paper versions of my novel are complete and as close to perfect as we could get them. Now comes the challenge of formatting an e-book, which is proving to be enormously frustrating, what with the way the files like to misbehave. Right now we’re stuck, but I’m praying for the angels to send me a MOBI miracle.


I couldn't resist slipping my girl up on the shelf!

My newest task is to promote Cosette’s Tribe. It makes me a little nervous—this marketing thing. Actually I feel fearful and brave all at the same time. I guess I’ll just have to dive in and get it done the same way I wrote the book and published it…feeling a bit inadequate. Everything is new. Everything is waiting. Everything must be done and inadequacies must be defied. I’ve come to the conclusion that fear can be a great motivator and that anything worth doing is usually accomplished while afraid.

The tango continues...

Tucked in and Tamed

I’m inside here…somewhere. My stream of consciousness is as deep as the eyes of God and as shallow as the peppery dust on a city sidewalk.



I study the things that move around me; big things and pointy things; things which are totally out of my control. Some drop downwards like the guilty eyes of Judas, and fly upwards like the surprised soul of the newly dead.



Other things rise faithfully, like the sun on a wintry morning; all silvery white with promise, yet without enough heat to thaw fear’s frozen grip from my pale throat.



And then there are other things that randomly appear, a rainbow on the tail end of a storm, a glad omen, dressed in candy stripes, like a parade flag heralding happiness. I like these the best. Happy rabbit trails with tea parties and grinning kittens.



I keep myself inside myself, tucked in and tamed. I dream from this place and hunt and love. My body obeys my commands, a nod of assurance to move forward and take the risk, or to draw back and RUN! Sometimes I dare myself to dance like a sweaty harlot or prompt myself to pray like Mother Theresa with her bony hands tangled into a holy knot.



I wonder at all of it, the thoughts, the emotions, the dreams, and drawbacks. I wonder at my choices; for I’m not exempt from surprising myself, disappointing myself, and scaring the shit out of myself.



The day is long with ruminations and labor, the night with its epiphanies and nightmares. Who can say what a thought amounts to, or how far a word can go…and this body!




My consciousness is wavy, like the heat that rises at high noon from a tire-flattened carcass in Death Valley, and its content is invisible to all. I speak therefore I hide. I hide therefore I speak. I am not my mind. I am not my words. I am not my body. I am.

Dancing in the Rain

I remember when I was a kid my two older sisters and I used to run outside when the summer rains fell. Barefoot, we would dance like frenzied natives immersed in a tribal ritual, never self conscious about spectators, but playfully communicating with the rain. Sometimes the drops would fall so hard that they would bounce back up. Thousands of bullet fast splats demanding attention like a million machine guns spraying the earth. The rain hurt our faces, so we could only stand like a mummy in this rain, chins tucked, arms tightly pinned to our bodies, but the laughter would be there; hard laughter because of the pain of the drops, and the tension of being enveloped by something much bigger than we were.
When the rains were heavy the sewers on our road would overflow causing the gutters to run wild like swirling rivers. Leaves plucked off the trees by the storm would spin in little eddies on the water like tiny boats in distress. I always wanted to put an ant on one of those leaves and watch it sail around and around.
Inch by inch the flood would claim its victory over our little neighborhood road, transforming Ormond St. into a lazy waterway. The old oaks that once shaded our road now looked down onto a murky river below creating a scene which could have easily been plucked from a Huck Finn novel.
Mr. Sullivan, a neighbor who enjoyed boating and the bottle, would launch his ancient row boat into the surf and laugh like a stubbly chinned pirate as he rowed up and down the flooded road. Eventually the shores of the neighborhood would become flanked with families drawn out by his laughter to watch the familiar spectacle. The children cheered; each secretly yearning to be the first mate of this urban adventure. Only the 3 Sullivan children had the privilege of boarding the rickety craft, and they would sit with smug smiles and straight backs on the wooden slat seats, eating up the attention as though they were the only float in a grand parade. We envied them miserably, but all in all we were happy for the excitement, and if Mr. Sullivan had neglected to row the river Ormond, we would have missed it terribly.

Shake up Your Happiness!

The above song shook me up....in a good way. It inspired me to contemplate, and pursue, happiness. And what better time of year to seek it than Christmas?
Sometimes you have to shake up happiness. Like a snow globe sitting sedately on the shelf, coated in dust, life can become predictable and boring. It’s when you take life off the shelf and give it a shake or two, that life takes on some excitement, much like the snow globe after a good shaking.
I often wait for life to hand me happiness. Like a hungry beggar I stand mutely with my little heart wide open, hoping that life will give me a handout. But it rarely does. Some people stay this way for years, lamenting their misery and blaming bad luck or the world for their lack of happiness.
My mother used to say, “You have to make your own happiness Leah.” Then she would patiently steer me into a direction of amusement by providing me with a piece of fabric and a needle and thread, or a box of Crayola’s and a sheet of clean white paper. Within minutes I’d be happily engrossed in my project as time swept swiftly by.
I guess I’m equating happiness with happenings. Unlike joy which I consider a more spiritual attribute. Happiness pacifies the flesh and mind, while joy comforts the spirit. The Christian mystic, Madame Guyon, said, “It’s better to engage in a mindless hobby than to entertain a spirit of melancholy.” Basically it’s the same message my mother gave me so many years ago. So now that I’m grown….well mostly, I know that I am responsible for creating my own amusements and happiness’s. If I’m miserable and bored it’s my own damn fault.
Today, make a plan for happiness. Go out of your way to find it. Think outside of your predictable little life box. Call an old friend, watch your favorite movie. Try something new like skydiving, or acting. Do the thing you have always wanted to do, but never had the courage to try.
Don’t wait for someone to change things for you. They’re all too busy trying to figure out their own plan. The path to happiness is yours to find and follow. So, shake yourself up a batch of happiness. With all the ingredients available to you, there’s no end to the possibilities.